He sits beneath his quiet sadness
Within those deep crevasses of memory
pondering, such pleasures born not
through life, nor death neither,
but thought spoken so strangely,
such false condolences. Never improving but
resting upon those great past blunders
dreaming no longer of bright bounteous futures.
What then lies ahead but not the quickest
mind can comprehend, nor realise,
neither then can the purest soul imagine
For in these darker times, tis simple
nature to look pastward. Stare blank
darkness into the void, and fully conclude
we must as dead wood, drift, and hence, exist.
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